Take What You Can
by EternaLei
Summary: Jack's been rescued from the deserted island by the rumrunners, but still remains stranded without his beloved Black Pearl. But when the morose pirate butts heads with a clever con, mischeif, mayhem, and a whole lot of rum ensues...
1. Full Tankards Empty Pockets

A/N: Ok, so, this is my first shot at writing Fanfiction in years, so forgive me my trespasses in the fandom. I'd just like to take this opportunity to say that if any of my characters start acting like Mary-Sues, slap me. If any of the canon characters start acting OOC, slap me. Please R&R, I'm really looking for critisizm on my writing style, as I fear it's been rather stagnant of late. Thank you!

Disclaimer: I do not own Jack, The Black Pearl, or any of the characters or plot devices mentioned or used in the Disney production.

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TAKE WHAT YOU CAN

(Give Nothin' Back!)

by EternaLei

It was roughly 10 o'clock of the morning, and sunlight was just beginning to filter through the filth-caked windows of the Dead Dog Tavern. It only penetrated a few inches into the gloom, however, before seemingly thinking better of the endeavor and turning right back out, leaving the gritty confines of the establishment gloomy and dank. Not to mention rather empty; bustling with drunkards by noon and well through the night, this hour of the day often left the Dead Dog free of patrons. Only one remained, and the bartender was beginning to accept him as part of the scenery. He'd been here for the better part of a month, ever since he'd floated in with the rumrunners. A month, and not a moment of it sober; the wretch drank rum every day of the week, save for Sunday. Then he just drank whiskey.

With a jerk, the mass of snarled hair and beads looked up from whatever drunken or sleeping state he'd been in for the last several hours. "Illavanudderwun," he slurred, waving one hand wildly and nearly falling off his 3-legged stool, which hadn't been too stable to begin with. At least, not since the incident with the Jamaican sailor and the Plantation man with the bearded wench....

"Comin' right up, mistah Sparrow," the bartender, MacCuluchy told him with a smile. He'd been absentmindedly cleaning out a filthy tankard with and equally filthy rag for the better part of 15 minutes, just in case his wife came in to make sure he was keeping busy. A distraction from the fruitless pursuit would be most welcome. Not that Mr. Sparrow looked like he needed another anything, lest it was a bath, but MacCuluchy was not one to question the customer's orders. As long as the sun rose in the east each morning there'd be folk miserable about it for some reason or another, and when men were miserable, it was his God-given duty to supply them with enough alcohol to drown those miseries well into the next season. So MacCuluchy bravely did his duty and plopped a chipped mug full of amber rum in front of Sparrow's face.

The pirate stared at it for several minutes, swirling the dregs of the liquid around pensively, not looking quite as hung over as he had minutes before. Then, in a single swig, he drained the entire mug and slapped it back on the bar top, along with a sixpence. "Another!" he cried. That day's drinking had begun.

---

She's wasn't by any means gorgeous. On the contrary, 'Odd' was normally the first word to leap to mind. 'Crazy' tended to be the second.

Anyone walking past her might have taken her for a man. She wore a rather oversized black coat that came down to skirt the cobblestones with the dusty, frayed hem. Her current hat (She went through them at an alarming rate) was a brown leather affair, pinned up at either side and fixed with a crimson feather. She especially liked the feather. It added a dramatic flair to her appearance, in her opinion. Beneath the coat, most of her other clothes were men's attire; baggy trousers, a baggy muslin shirt with a very wide collar and large sleeves, and a few brightly colored sashes. The only feminine touch was a bodice over the shirt; she had discovered in the past you can hide lots of small, sharp things in a bodice.

At the moment she was casually leaning against the side of a rather seedy tavern. This part of town was commonly known as the dock district, and wasn't the nicest place on the island. Whenever good, upstanding folk had to pass through it for some reaosn or another, they did it as quickly as possible, doing their best to ignore all the lowlife. Naturally, none of them noticed the woman leaning against the window of the Dead Dog. More importantly, none of them noticed the absence of their coin purses until much later.

Kate Kidd smiled down at her newest catch before shoving it into her sash with the others. She was now developing a bit of a bulge around her middle – a bulge that clinked when she walked. She was doing very well today, and the hour not even noon! Of course, by midnight, there would be a very good chance that she'd have gambled it all away, but that would only mean she'd be out here pickpocketing again tomorrow morning. Assuming she was sober enough to stand...

"Ahoy! Kate!"

So much for anonymity. Kate pushed the brim of her hat up and turned to see a golden-haired wench with a bright smile running towards her. Mary Higgins- Also known by a few of her patrons as Bloody Mary, due to her bloody awful cooking...

"Allo, Mary, how goes the day?" Kate asked lazily, her nonchalance contrasting with Mary's bubbly cheerfulness.

"Oh, wonderful, we just got a new import of rum at the tavern, and one of the sailors tipped me mighty fine for a, er, favor, and I just got a new dress!" she exclaimed, gesturing to a parcel under her arm. One of many parcels, actually. It seemed that MacCuluchy had sent the lass to run errands. Mary was now standing right in front of Kate, and the latter being the shorter of two, was about face-to-face with the bar-wench's generous bosom, propped up by the tight lacings of her bodice. "It's so pretty, I'll have to show ye! And the trim will match that necklace ye, er, borrowed for me last Christmas!"

Kate tried to remember the necklace in question and failed. She often nicked fancy things, and if she wasn't up for pawning or gambling them, she'd often hand them over to her friend. "That's lovely, Mary," she replied in a rather disinterested tone." I take it business is well then?"

"Oh yes!" Kate was astounded by the naïvety Mary managed to maintain, despite her line of work. "Profits've been good, specially with that storm the other week that kept a lot 'o folk tied to the docks for a whiles!" Her smile suddenly dissipated, and was replaced by a pouting of her scarlet lips. "Though there is one chap- very good-looking fella – who we just can't seem to cheer up. He's been racking up a tab to house a small army, but he dun respond to nuthin me or the girls say."

"Does he now?" Kate remarked absently, eyeing a man in a powdered wig strutting confidently down the street. Well, eyeing his pockets, to be more exact.

"Aye. He just sits there and drinks his rum and dun say a word to nobody, 'cept to call for more rum. He even slept in the bar 'cause MacCuluchy felt too sorry for 'im to throw 'im out. Will ye be comin' to gamble tonight?"

"Of course I'll be gambling," Kate retorted, turning her attention away from the rich twit, who'd just turned down the opposing street. Dammit.

"I dun think ye should, Kate," Mary replied in worried tones. Kate hated it when Mary got motherly, especially since the rogue outnumbered the wench in years. "You'd be so much better off if ye didn't bet off all your money..."

She sighed. "Does it cross your mind, Mary, that I got the majority of that money from gambling in the first place? I'm good, don't worry about me!"

"Sorry, Kate," Mary replied, looking prettily distraught. She really was a pretty girl, what with her curly golden hair and round blue eyes, and figure to make many a sailor whistle. If only she didn't paint her face so gaudily... Kate was quite a contrast, her pale-brown hair coarse, wild, and long, mainly from neglect, and her boyish face narrow and browned by sun. She was scarred and bony, and built like a board.

"Dun worry about it." Kate returned her vision to the scene of the bustling port of Isla Mugriento. Even though it was now technically a British settlement, no one had yet bothered to change the Spanish name. Back when it had been under control of the Spanish, the island had been a loathesome hive of scum. It had been cleaned up considerably over the years, but certain places, like certain people, never change. It was still just corrupt enough for the law to have a blind spot that Kate fit in to quite nicely. Being a gambler, thief, con, and general ne'er-do-well island-hopping scallywag had definite perks. "Here, I'll buy ye luncheon-"

"Oh, dun worry 'bout that! I have to go cook these potatoes anyway! I suppose I'll see ye in a bit...."

"Aye, a bit." Kate shot a smile at Mary as the other girl ducked into the Dead Dog Tavern. It was a disgusting place, and while this meant Kate was naturally attracted to it, she couldn't help but feel sorry for Mary. She wasn't right for this sort of life – she ought to have been one of those wealthy stitching pansies married to one of the British commanders at the fort.

But, she wasn't; she was a bar wench and Kate was a worthless waste of oxygen with roughly 6 purses shoved in her belt, and there wasn't anything either of them could do about it.

Well, except for the purses.

Kate began to smile deviously...


	2. Accord

A/N: Much thanks to my replier, Geheimnis! Please let me know what you think of this section...If anyone would have the godly patience or time to beta I would love you forever!

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"Twenty-One!" Kate cried, slapping down her king of hearts, nine of spades, and two of clubs. Grinning, she reached forward to scoop up the winnings as the other gamblers groaned from either falling short or busting. "That's three in a row, and I do believe I'll be taking my leave from you gentlemen," she told the assorted sailors and swindlers gathered around the small back table. She put her hat back on with a flourish, tied the sack full of her winnings to her sash, bowed deeply, then turned sharply on her heel to leave. Nobody behind her protested; they were all more than glad to see her go, before they were steeped even deeper into poverty.

She was forced to squint as she stepped out of the hovel and into the sunshine. The tension of the card playing made it easy to lose track of time, and she was surprised to find it not long after four in the afternoon. Pulling thee brim of her hat down to shelter her adjusting vision, she made her way down the street, breathing in the not-so-fresh air of Isla Mugriento. She was greeted with the stench of manure, fish, and human waste. All around fishmongers waved their bulge-eyed wares in the faces of anyone who didn't walk by fast enough, and merchants shouted out prices for stolen and pawned goods. Urchins ran about underfoot, lightening the loads of anyone silly enough to not have their money heavily strapped to their personage.

As she paused to admire a bracelet she could have sworn was being displayed in a shop window uptown just a week before, Kate felt a slight tugging at her sash. "Oh no you don't-" She grumbled, whirling around and deftly snatching the wrist of a struggling, dirt-faced boy.

"Miss Kidd! I's so sorry, Miss! Din recognize ye with the new hat! Thought ye was a bag-" he exclaimed, round eyes widening even further.

Kate smiled and released him. "No problem, Gib. How's your Mum doing these days?"

Gib frowned. "She's 'aving another baby again."

"Hazard of the trade, Gib. Tell her I send me best," she replied, clapping him on the shoulder. "Now give me that purse back. I know you have it in your sleeve, I t'weren't born yesterday."

Gib stared at her, then made a face and withdrew a small purse from the ratty sleeve of his patched shirt. Kate took it with a grin, then withdrew a gold coin and flipped it to him. The waif snatched it from midair and bit it, inspecting the authenticity. "Go buy something nice for you new brother or sister or whatever," Kate told him over her shoulder as she swaggered down the road.

---

The water was the purest shade of cerulean as it stretched out from the white beach, lined with the outstretched fingers of the emerald palm trees. When a light breeze rolled in, the trees would toss their leaves and sway like dancing girls. All the colors were vivd; _alive;_ how different from the inside of this stuffy chamber. Making a face, Rainford turned away from the window and back towards the man in the overly-stylish waistcoat.

"So what do you want, John? I haven't got all day," he snapped. Not that he had anything better to be doing on this side of the ocean, and they both knew it.

"You always _were_ painfully frank, weren't you, Gregory. Tea?" The waistcoat's occupant didn't flinch at the gruffness in Rainford's voice. Instead he appeared politely disinterested in the other man's presence, lounging in a high-backed chair with one stockinged leg folded over the other. Rainford wouldn't be caught dead wearing breeches that tight.

"Cut to the point, will you?" he dropped his voice to a snarl. Travel in general tended to make him grumpy, and Rainford had a bad enough disposition as it was.

John Sherringford sighed and placed his teacup down delicately on the tray before him. Folding his hands, he peered up at Rainford. "I see all pleasantries are wasted on you, Gregory. In that case I shall 'cut to the point' as you put it. I summoned you here from England." After this statement he paused. Rainford looked at him incredulously.

"As if I didn't bloody know that already!"

"Patience, my friend, patience. You have no doubt heard of the economic and commercial stress resulting from the constant acts of piracy we experience in these parts?"

"Yeah, I've heard of pirates. They're giving you lot a right amount of trouble slipping 'tween your legs, aren't they?" Rainford took pleasure in seeing Sherringford shift uncomfortably. Tight-arsed upper-class sod. "What does that have to do with me?"

"You're a bounty hunter."

"And you're a commander in his Majesty's Royal Navy, you've got a bloody fleet at your disposal!"

Sherringford's features darkened slightly beneath his ridiculous powdered wig. "Relations with the Spanish are currently strained. If all-out war breaks out in the caribbean, I don't want to have all my ships off playing cat and mouse with a bunch of criminals on boats." He stood and crossed over to the other window, staring out at the same vista Rainford had been admiring moments before (though he'd never had admitted it). "You, on the other hand... You're not a soldier. You're freelance."

"You mean I'm disposable?" Rainford asked, voice dangerously low as he glowered at the aristocratic commander.

His face flushed. "That's not what I meant. You're... unorthodox. Rules of engagement don't apply to you. I've heard of how you work; you're sneaky, manipulative and ruthless."

"Stop making me blush, John." Rainford coated his words in sarcasm but wondered what Sherringford was getting at.

The military man turned to face him "Pirates are of a chaotic nature. They are unorganized scum that convene under the leadership of a captain. It is only with this leadership that they wrack together the wits to go and wreak the destruction they do. Once deprived of leadership, crews will go to pieces, fighting among themselves and making them sitting targets for the Navy to come clean up." Now he began to pace, his voice picking up pace and intensity. "You, Gregory, are a bounty hunter. A hired shot. As of now, I am placing a bounty on the head or every pirate captain in the caribbean." He turned sharply to lock eyes with Rainford. "Have you followed me?"

The dark-haired man leaned against the draperies and inspected his raggedly cut nails. "I do the military's dirty work and you pay me under the table?"

Sherringford sighed contemptuously. "You have an amazing way with words Gregory- you can take anything you hear and strip it down to the most crude, warped form of its essence conceivable."

"So, yes?"

"Yes."

He grinned darkly. "Then we have an accord... brother."


	3. The Dead Dog Tavern

Jack was in misery. The kind of misery where breathing alone is a drudgery, and opening ones' eyes to sunlight in the morning is torture. The kind of misery that makes a man prefer oblivion to existing hour after hour. The kind of misery that cannot be fully drowned, even in drink.

Not that he wouldn't try his damnedest.

The bedraggled pirate took another long draw of his rum. The sweet liquid ran down his throat and dribbled down his chin, dripping from his beard, which had seen far too many days without attention. All around him was the raucous noise of night falling on Isla Mugriento. For a moment he allowed himself to feel comfort in the ruckus, so like the bawdy streets of Tortuga. Then he remembered that Tortuga had been where he'd first encountered that treacherous piece of scum of a first mate. Groaning, he took another swig. Traitors. All of them traitors. Mutiny? Against him? _Captain_ Jack Sparrow? How _dare_ they? _How dare Barbossa? _Why, ALL of them! Even Bootstrap had forsaken him for that bloody treasure that ought to have been HIS!

He slammed the tankard down on the table and stared at it furiously, as if the sheer power of his gaze might cause it to shatter and squelch like the head of that scurvy dog of a first mate ought–

"Canna get'choo anythin' more, mistah Sparrow?"

Jack tore his eyes away from that mutinous tankard of rum to look at the 2 identical men in front of him that after a moment, melded into one individual with a kind smile full of rotting teeth. Jack leaned back slightly and miraculously managed not to imbalance his stool. What was his name? MacCury? Macaroon? "Er, not right now, mate," the drunken pirate and up-until-recently captain replied. The jauntily putrid bartender nodded and turned his attention back to a few other patrons who were roughing up the already dilapidated furniture, as Jack returned his to the tankard before him. He was almost sick of rum by now, having lived off it for days before the rumrunners found him.

Almost.

He downed the rest, just as somewhere, a fiddle picked up a vivacious tune...

---

When Kate entered the Dead Dog Tavern, dusk had already fallen, as had any pretense Isla Mugriento might have made during the day lit hours of being remotely civilized. The two main things on the menu in the Dead Dog; whiskey and sin, with a smell as bad as the name. Tugging her hat down over her visage, Kate shuffled through the establishment, making note of who she knew and who she owed money, taking care to skirt around the latter. She was almost at the actual bar, which war near the back of the common room, when she caught a glimpse of Mary, bouncing on the lap of some muscled sailor with only 1 eye. She turned and smiled at Kate, shooting her a look that stated 'just a moment'. Kate nodded, then continued on her way to the bar. She pulled up a stool and made herself more or less comfortable, and was on the verge of ordering a drink when Mary showed up, blushing and shoving something shiny down into her bodice. "'Allo, Kate. How were the profits today?"

Kate shrugged, maintaining a friendly nonchalance. "Not bad at all. With a bit of luck at my fingers t'night, they'll be doubling. Yerself?"

"Oh, t'night's looking quite promisin'..." she shot a glance back over at the 1-eyed sailor. "Quite promisin'... though there is that one fellow I was tellin' ye about earlier-"

"What fellow?" Kate had been gazing at a table of card a few feet away.

Mary pouted painted lips at Kate's apparent lack of attention. "That miserable fellow none of the lasses can cheer up! I've tried, an' so has Rosita an' Isobel. He's over there, tryin' to drown himself in drink-"

"What makes you think I can cheer him up when all you gorgeous girls can't get his interest?" Kate raised an eyebrow, pushing the brim of her hat up a tad.

"Oh, I dun know, Kate, yer just sunthin' else, an', well, can ye just see if ye can get him to smile?"

"I'm not sleepin' with him."

"Of course not, that's our job... but if you can just..."

Kate sighed and rolled her eyes. "All right. But don't expect nothing to come of it!" Tugging her hat back down, she strolled over to where the scruffy, beaded man Mary had indicated sat...

---


End file.
